


Push Me or Just Pull Me

by azephirin



Series: As Certain Dark Things [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, As Certain Dark Things, BDSM, Cooking, Domestic, Established Relationship, Food, Incest, Kink, M/M, Schmoop, Sequel, Spanking, Topping from the Bottom, University, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-28
Updated: 2010-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-06 18:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azephirin/pseuds/azephirin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They haven't done this for a long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Push Me or Just Pull Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the same universe with [As Certain Dark Things](http://archiveofourown.org/works/51307) and its sequels, and takes place some indeterminate amount of time after [This Shelter in the Grove](http://archiveofourown.org/works/56157). I figured I could write something that would actually move the plot forward...or I could write spanking emo!porn. This story is, very obviously, the latter. It will make more sense if you've read the other stories in the 'verse, but if you're just here for the smut, know that this is substantially AU, with Sam and Dean having been raised apart (though they are indeed brothers).

> _where r u?
> 
> At study group. Probably stuck here until 8ish. :(
> 
> no worries. ill make dinner. dont stress. &lt;3 u.
> 
> _

  
Dean, honestly, would be delighted to arrive home to find a peanut butter sandwich and milk on the table. He's not picky, and his roommate is away for the weekend, which means he gets unrestrained access to Sam for the next two days. There's no food better than that.

He unlocks the door to his apartment and discovers some kind of pasta on the stove. The table is set, with some kind of bizarre minimalist flower arrangement as centerpiece; a bottle of red wine (which Dean is pretty sure he didn't buy, which means Sam used his fake ID, which makes Dean half want to laugh and half want to bury his head in his hands, or in the sand) is at the ready.

"Honey," Dean says, "you cooked." Sam is not, mercifully, wearing an apron, just his usual combination of slightly battered (but no doubt expensive) jeans with an oxford shirt, this one blue-and-white striped, with the sleeves rolled up. The kitchen is rich with the scent of whatever he's making...but Dean can't exactly tell what that is. He thinks he smells tomatoes, but also...raisins?

Sam brandishes a cooking spoon, slightly frighteningly. "You may kiss the cook. Then you may open the wine. Dinner's almost ready."

"What are you making?"

"Pine nut pasta cavalfiore. It's Sicilian."

"Why does it smell like raisins?"

"Currants. It has currants and saffron in it; that's probably what you're smelling. Maria used to make this a lot. Mine's probably not as good, but it's still pretty fucking good." Sam ceases the threatening gestures with his spoon and sets it down to kiss Dean. Indeed, he tastes like saffron. "Go open the wine," he says. "Since you're of age and all."

"I hate you," Dean says, without heat, and he goes and opens the wine.

******************

 

The problem with this kind of a supper is that good food, especially at the end of the day, makes Dean sleepy. Feed him well, and all he wants to do is curl up and take a nap. Sam, on the other hand, gets energetic and randy (or energetically randy), and, well, it's Friday night and they have the apartment to themselves for an entire weekend.

Dean still yawns.

"You're gonna have to wake up," Sam says, sounding amused but completely unsurprised. "I have plans for you."

"Wine and food, Sam," says Dean. "You should know this by now."

"Be unpredictable. Be inconsistent in your behavior just once in your entire exceedingly consistent life. Say something about the centerpiece."

"It looks like modern art." It kind of does, if modern art lived on Dean's dining-room table. Or, more accurately, given the size of this place, his living-room table.

Sam laughs. "It's not modern art. Think function over form."

"You collected some twigs and you're going to light a fire in my apartment? Please don't. I'll get kicked out of campus housing."

This time Sam's laugh is more like a snort. "Dean," he says, "don't you know a switch when you see one?"

Dean coughs.

They haven't done this for a long time. Not since Chicago. Since Before.

Sam folds his napkin neatly on the table and comes over to where Dean's sitting. With his usual grace and economy of movement, he kneels next to Dean's chair, hand on Dean's thigh. Dean can't not turn, can't not run his hand through Sam's hair to rest on the back of his neck.

"I'll beg if you want me to," Sam says. "Do you want me to beg? Tell you how bad I've been? How much I need you to do it?" He's not smiling; his voice is level; but his eyes are gleaming and his eyebrows rising with mischief.

"You can put me over your knee," Sam continues, "or bend me over, make me pull my pants down first, tell me to hand you the switch—"

There's not a lot that can withstand Sam when he's like this.

"Sam, ow," Dean says. "Seriously."

Their argument Before was nearly identical to this one.

Sam shrugs. "So if it's too much, we stop."

Dean kisses Sam, lets their foreheads rest against each other for a moment.

Then he gets up, leaving Sam on his knees, and goes over to the couch. "Clear the table," Dean says, sitting down. "Then come over here."

Sam's eyes drop, and Dean swears his lashes flutter. For sure, he's smiling. "Yes, sir."

Dean doesn't nap, but he closes his eyes and at least pretends to, listening to Sam take their dishes into the kitchen, put the leftovers away, load the dishwasher. Oddly, it's the sound of the dishwasher coming on that relaxes Dean. On the one hand, it's absurd that they'll be enacting what amounts to a BDSM scene with the dishwasher running in the background. On the other, it's a plain, audible reminder that all they are is themselves: that they're here, at home, with supper eaten and the dishes washing, and they're doing what is natural for them. (_Unnatural,_ says a voice inside Dean that never entirely shuts up, but he muzzles it for the time being.)

Sam comes back into the living room, and Dean opens his eyes. He doesn't speak, just nods toward the table. Sam goes over, gets one of the switches, and brings it to Dean. Dean runs his finger down it—and suppresses a shiver, not entirely pleasurable, at the idea that Sam wants to be hit with this—but he merely says, "Good. Pull down your pants and bend over the end of the couch."

Sam does, though his underwear stay in place. Dean gets up, lays the switch where Sam can see it, and gently tugs the navy boxer-briefs (Dolce &amp; Gabbana, per usual) most of the way down Sam's thighs. "Those should have come down, too," he says, and kisses Sam's temple. "That's five more with the switch."

Sam says, "I'm sorry, sir."

"Oh," answers Dean, "you will be."

He can see that Sam is still smiling.

"Shirt off, too," Dean adds, and without objection or question, Sam straightens, unbuttons his shirt, and folds it over the back of the couch. He grew up with a variety of maids and a housekeeper, but is compulsively neat—an effect, Dean thinks, of the fact that it was mainly the housekeeper who raised him.

Dean stands back for a moment to look at Sam: the strong, clean lines of his back; his hair soft and a little unruly over his ears; the perfect exposed curve of his ass. Dean doesn't know what roles they're playing, and he realizes that was probably a mistake: The last time they did this is front and center in his mind, and it's got to be in Sam's too. They've had a lot of sex since moving to California—now that they're far away from their own histories, now that Dean has his own place (well, his own place with a roommate, anyway), now that they can. But they haven't done this particular thing again: Sam hasn't asked, and Dean hasn't brought it up.

"You disobeyed me again, Sam," Dean assays. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

Sam takes a breath, and Dean puts a hand on the small of his back. Sam's skin is warm, and Dean rubs a little bit and feels the muscles and tendons loosen. Uncharted waters for both of them.

"I don't know," Sam says. "I need to learn not to do it."

"That you do," Dean agrees. "Do you think a spanking will help?"

Sam turns his head. His smile is near-on a smirk. "If it's administered properly."

Dean has to bite his lip not to laugh. "You sassing me?"

"No, sir. Just tendering an opinion."

Dean slaps him across the ass, and Sam gasps, head dropping back down. Dean does it again, and then keeps going, starting slow. Sam's hips press forward just a little, and Dean can see him getting hard. He gives Sam a few more smacks, careful to center them on the softest part, where he'll feel them but they won't bruise, and then he reaches around to trail his fingers over the head of Sam's cock. Sam's gasp this time is more of a word: Dean's name, breathy and high.

In response, Dean spanks him some more. He watches Sam shudder, listens to the half-vocalized pleas that come out of his mouth, then stops, letting his hand rest for a moment on the heated, pinkened skin. Then Dean leans over and picks up the switch. Sam's head doesn't move, but his eyes track every motion Dean makes.

"Stand up," Dean says, and Sam does. His hands start to go behind him, to rub, but Dean clears his throat and Sam freezes. "Did I say you could?"

"No, sir."

"That's right." He holds the switch out to Sam. "Kiss it."

Sam does, eyelids low and lazy—but then he takes Dean's hand and kisses each of his fingertips as well as the palm. He lays Dean's palm on his cheek and says, "Will you please kiss me?"

It can be difficult to top somebody when you're shorter—though Nick, five seven on a good day, certainly managed—and it doesn't help that Dean has to look up to kiss Sam. But it's Dean holding Sam's head in place, cupping his face and stroking his hair, and it's Dean who pulls away. "Over the couch again," he tells Sam.

Sam obeys.

Sam yelps the first time the switch makes contact, and this time it's Dean who freezes. "Sam...is that...?"

The line across Sam's ass is at a slight slant, and unmistakable. Sam starts to reach around again, but then stops. "May I have permission to stand?"

"Yes. You can touch it if you want."

Sam's fingers find the fine pink line. Dean walks over to stand close to him, cover Sam's hand with his own so that they're both touching the mark. "Sam, that's...we can stop."

Sam leans back, and they're kissing again. Dean presses Sam against him, hand still on his ass, and even though Sam's taller, outweighs him a little, Dean can feel the surrender in his body—Sam's kiss is nearly a plea. "It's intense," Sam says when they break apart. "But I like it."

"Seriously?"

Sam takes Dean's hand from his ass, guides it to his cock. "Dean, you feel that, right?"

Dean strokes him for a little while, drinking the whimpers out of Sam's mouth until Sam's thrusting into his hand.

Then Dean pulls away. "That's enough for now. We haven't finished with your punishment yet."

This time Sam doesn't need to be told to bend over.

Sam makes some kind of noise at every stroke—after the first few, it unnerves Dean enough that he stops, at least until Sam looks around at him with a "what's the holdup?" expression on his face.

It leaves a bright latticework on Sam's skin, like carelessly applied paint. Sam's erection doesn't flag, and Dean's becomes more and more urgent.

"Dean," Sam says between strokes. "Dean."

"What is it, Sam?"

"I need to...Please, can I touch myself? Please. It's...please."

Dean puts down the switch. "Get the Neutrogena stuff out of the medicine cabinet, and come into my bedroom." Sam gives him a perplexed look, and Dean slaps him, lightly, across the ass. Sam's shocked gasp is completely satisfying. "Was there some part of that you didn't understand?"

"No, sir."

Dean's already sitting on the bed when Sam comes in. He's still shirtless; he holds his jeans around his thighs, but he hasn't pulled them all the way up. Which, given the state of his ass, is not a surprise. Dean takes the small tube of hand salve, the kind he uses after washing his hands when he gets off shift at the garage. "Take off the rest of your clothes," he tells Sam.

Sam does, and folds everything, even his underwear, on Dean's desk. (And he calls Dean predictable—or, rather, consistent.) "Come here," Dean says.

Dean keeps Sam standing for a few minutes, jacking him slowly, not hard, just enough that Dean can spread his own slickness around his cock. "I could suck you right now," Dean says conversationally. "It's the right position, you standing like that, me sitting here."

Sam opens his mouth, and Dean says, "But I'm not going to do that. Over my lap."

Sam obeys.

Dean squeezes some of the salve onto his fingers, smoothes it over the abraded skin. He spanks Sam once with his hand, then again. "I know you want to come," he tells Sam. "So you're going to come over my lap. Just from being spanked." He rubs more of the salve onto Sam's ass, and spanks him deliberately, letting Sam's cock push between his thighs, letting Sam rub against him. "I've barely even touched you tonight," Dean goes on, "and you're hard like I've just fucked and sucked you. We'll save that for tomorrow, though. Assuming you behave yourself." Dean smacks Sam at that same regular pace, not too hard, just enough to sting a little and give Sam some friction. "Come on, Sam. Let me have it. Can you do that for me, Sam?" He coats his fingers in the salve and presses one down to rub over Sam's hole, rubbing over it, pushing in just a little, then a little more, and that's it for Sam: He shudders and cries out, and there's a rush of heat and wetness between them.

Sam's panting as Dean lets him up. Dean kisses him and spreads his legs, and Sam doesn't even need to be told, "On your knees"; he goes immediately, opening Dean's jeans (which most assuredly need to be washed) and pushing down his boxers to suck him. Dean buries his clean hand in Sam's hair and clenches the other in the sheets as Sam unerringly finds the places that make him crazy: the spot underneath the head of his cock, the sensitive slit, which Sam tongues as Dean moans.

Between Sam's mouth on Dean's cock and his clever fingers playing with Dean's balls, Dean's climax doesn't take long. He comes in Sam's mouth, hot and overwhelming, and Sam licks him through the aftershocks. Dean hauls Sam up onto the bed, and he tastes himself in their kiss.

They lie there for a while, holding each other and gathering breath, until Sam says, "Dude, your jeans are disgusting."

Dean looks down: Sam's right. With Sam's come and the precursors to Dean's own, there's not much of a question as to what they've been doing. Dean takes them off and throws them in the direction of his laundry hamper, along with his boxers; Sam helpfully tugs at Dean's shirt, so he pulls that off; then Sam starts laughing at Dean's state of nakedness-but-for-argyle-socks, so Dean rolls his eyes and throws them in the laundry, too. Now they're both naked, and a little sticky.

Dean settles the covers around them both.

"You don't want a shower?" Sam says.

"Nope," Dean says. He doesn't mind being a little sticky, and he likes the smell of them together, musky and intimate. "We can shower in the morning."

The dishwasher has finished its cycle; the apartment is quiet. Sam moves onto his stomach (again, not much of a surprise); Dean stretches out next to him and strokes up and down the line of his spine. He does touch the crisscrossing marks, as gently as possible, and says, "Those OK?"

"I'll feel them tomorrow," Sam says. "But that's what I wanted. I like feeling you the next day."

"Will you be able to sit in class Monday?"

"I don't see why not. I drove—" Sam breaks off.

"It's OK to say it," Dean says after a moment.

"To Lawrence," Sam goes on after another moment. His voice is soft but steady. "I drove to Lawrence from Chicago two days after you...after you spanked me the other time."

"The seats in that car are probably a lot more comfortable than the average Stanford classroom," Dean points out.

Sam laughs. "True. So I'll take a pillow to class. Then everybody will know we're kinky." He looks at Dean with a smile that's oddly tentative. "Lucky us."

Dean kisses his shoulder, brushes Sam's hair back from his forehead. "Lucky us."

**Author's Note:**

> There are several fics/ficlets that follow this. They're all linked [here](http://azephirin.livejournal.com/tag/verse:+as+certain+dark+things).
> 
> This is what happens when I listen to too much Ludacris. Title from [What's Your Fantasy](http://www.geocities.com/sunsetstrip/backstage/1687/wyfls.html), oh yeah. I should probably feel some kind of sense of shame about that, but pretty much I don't have one. The only thing in this fic with any nutritional value is the pasta Sam makes, which is from _Moosewood New Classics_; recipe [here](http://community.cookinglight.com/archive/index.php?t-65266.html).
> 
> Also, there is a DVD commentary for this story [here](http://azephirin.livejournal.com/42050.html#cutid1).


End file.
